Deprived
by Klyntaliah
Summary: Clint returns from his first solo mission as Natasha's boyfriend hoping to be welcomed with open arms... He's in for a big surprise. Clintasha oneshot. T for mild suggestive themes and mild language. "She didn't seem surprised to see him standing so close – either she was good at hiding it, or she'd felt him there all along."
**Yep, I'm still alive!**

 **This oneshot has been a long time in the making - I wrote it last year, and finally got around to typing it up last month. It was pretty crappy (to say the least) so I patched it up as I went along... it took a while.**

 **I'm still not totally sure if I like it... it's kinda random and I'm not really sure what's going on. xP Still, I hope you can derive some kind of enjoyment out of it and it makes your day a teensy bit brighter! x)**

 **Enjoy (if you can)!**

* * *

Surveillance had always kind of been Clint's thing.

It might not appeal to most people to be holed up on a roof or in an alley for hours on end, tracking the movements of a subject or subjects. But to Clint, there was a certain routine to the procedure, a familiar monotony that he found relaxing.

You would get to your location, unload your gear, and set up your scope and rifle (or, in Clint's case, bow). You would locate your target, and just watch them for the next hour or two hours or twelve hours or twenty-four hours, or however long you were required to. And finally, if SHIELD deemed in necessary, you would finish off the target with a bullet (or, in Clint's case, and arrow). All things considered, not a terrible weekend.

It didn't hurt that Clint was practically tailor-made for the role. His sharp eyes, which had earned him the codename "Hawkeye", were well suited to multiple consecutive hours peering through scopes, and adept at picking out a target in a crowded environment, regardless of distance. And the job required not only visual adroitness, but professional patience, which Clint had by the bucketful.

It was for these reasons that many surveillance missions got doled out to Clint, particularly the high-security or high-profile cases. He didn't mind; while he enjoyed action as much as the next person, surveillance missions were kind of his way of winding down.  
Still, you could take the thing too far.

Clint had just come back from a surveillance job in LA where he'd been tracking a distinguished rep from CIA. Apparently, Fury had struck some kind of deal with the guy and Clint's job was to make sure he held up his end of the bargain (the case was a Level Ten, so Clint hadn't been given all the details). In the end, Clint had reported the target's movements for a grand total of two-and-a-half weeks before SHIELD was satisfied that the rep was as trustworthy as he was paunchy and balding.

As Clint entered the SHIELD headquarters, pissed and slightly sunburnt, his mind was on one thing – Natasha. Ever since their relationship had become less professional and more personal, any solo missions that either one of them was assigned seemed longer and more tedious. And this one had been the longest solo mission that either of them had taken since they had become "an item." Clint had had a hard time keeping his mind off his partner and on the job, especially during the final few days of the mission. He couldn't wait to finally see her face and hear her voice and touch her skin after seventeen crummy days that had stretched out like torturous taffy.

Clint found his handler just outside the base's technology center, giving instructions to an earnest-looking Level One, who was scribbling notes on a clipboard.

"…and have Commander Hill cancel the recon job in Tallahassee," Coulson was saying. "Intel checks out, the target's location was transferred to a base just south of Miami…"

At that point, Coulson noticed Clint and raised a hand in greeting. He dismissed the Level One and turned as Clint approached him.

"So how was sunny California?" Coulson asked facetiously, as Clint came to a halt in front of him.

"Sunny," Clint deadpanned. He indicated his rosy skin. "See that? I bathed in sunblock three times a day, and I still came out looking like a scared tomato."

"Scared tomato. I like it. Very descriptive," Coulson approved, nodding.

"Hey, this doesn't count as a debrief does it?" Clint said dryly. "Because I would just like to state, strictly off the record, that this mission was utter crap."

"Your target act up?" Coulson asked sympathetically.

"Act up?" Clint scoffed. "I wish. At least that would've made for some variety. I mean, you can only watch a fifty-year old white guy sitting in his office scratching his balls for so long before it starts to get old."

Coulson nodded again. "Well, I'm sure you'll get the chance to describe _all_ your target's actions to me in excruciating detail during the _official_ debriefing in ten."

Clint raised his head. If the debriefing was in ten minutes, he wouldn't get much time to catch up with Natasha before it started. He figured he'd better make good use of his time and find her right away.

"Hey, uh…" Clint scanned the hallway. "Natasha here, perchance?"

Coulson gave a satisfied smile, and Clint was forcibly reminded of the Cheshire Cat. "Yeah. She's here," he said gleefully, nodding. "Office Twelve, second floor."

Clint frowned. "Second floor?" he repeated. The second floor was the level where SHIELD received calls from irate intelligence agents who'd tangled with SHIELD and come away none too pleased. It was the like the SHIELD equivalent of a customer service center. Taking those calls was a Level Two job, maybe Three. And Natasha was a Level Six.

Coulson nodded again. "I know. Isn't it great?"

"What's she doing up there?" Clint asked.

Coulson said, "Remember that high-profile Israeli target who Natasha wanted intel on?"

"Uhh, sounds familiar."

"Well, I had to override multiple security protocols to secure the file she was after. She owed me one, and she's paying it off now by answering phone calls till five."

"Okay," Clint said. "Well, in that case, I guess I'd better head up there."

He started to walk away.

"Oh, and Barton?"

Clint looked back.

"I'm pushing that debriefing back an hour," the agent stated with a knowing smile.

Clint turned to him. "Hey, thanks… what for?"

"Just figured you could use the extra time," Coulson replied, still with that knowing smile.

Clint thought he understood what his handler was getting at and was confused, as Coulson was highly averse to agents shagging in the offices. Still, he thanked Coulson and headed to the elevators, not realizing that Coulson could not have given him the extra time for a more opposite reason.

Clint's anticipation rose with the elevator. He'd been fantasizing about this reunion for days, and his excitement was reaching new heights now that he was so close to seeing her again. He envisioned her smiling and running towards him, throwing herself into his arms. He imagined kissing her, probably a passionate, long-lasting kiss to make up for all the time they had been separated.

As he walked down the hallway, keeping an eye on the office numbers, he wondered what would be the first thing she said when he walked in. Maybe, "About time you showed up." Or "What the hell took so long, idiot?" Both possibilities were equally likely and equally affectionate.

Even if he'd thought about it for hours on end, Clint could never have guessed what she really said.

He opened the door.

The first thing Natasha said was, "SHIELD personnel are not required to report details of their personal lives to their superiors."  
Clint closed the door and stood there for a minute, drinking in the sight of her. She was lounging against the side of the desk, one hand crossed over her elbow, the other pressing a corded phone to her ear as she frowned into space. She was wearing black pumps and a navy blue pencil skirt with a matching blazer, and her bright curls were pinned loosely away from her face, spilling down her shoulders.

Clint dropped his black duffel bag on the floor, signaling his arrival.

Natasha didn't look up. "If any SHIELD agents were involved in rogue operations, it would be SHIELD's responsibility to investigate the situation and apply disciplinary measures if necessary."

Clint took a step forward. "Natasha?"

Natasha half-glanced at him and briefly lifted a hand in greeting. "I understand, ma'am, but I hope you're aware that a thorough investigation could take some time."

Clint subsided, slightly irked. He could tell Natasha was busy, but he wished she would greet him properly. He wanted to hug her so badly that he was afraid he might explode, but she was barely acknowledging his presence.

Clint slowed down a little and decided to give his partner some grace. She was in the middle of a phone call, after all. Besides, based on what she was saying now, it seemed that the call would be ending soon, so he figured he could wait a little longer for his idealized reunion.

"Alright, I'll get back with you on that. Thank you." Natasha hung up. She threw Clint a hasty smile, then walked straight to the small computer desk on the far side of the room.

Clint frowned, confused and disappointed by her lack of enthusiasm. Maybe she was angry with him for some reason? He couldn't think of any reason why she should be.

He took another step forward. "Hey," he said softly.

There was a silence, punctured only by the rhythmic clicking of Natasha's fingers on the keyboard. "Hi," she said absently.

Cautiously, Clint moved toward the computer desk. It was up against the wall, so he couldn't get behind it, but he leaned up beside it so he was in his partner's line of vision, and he could see her face as well.

"I'm back," he prompted, examining her features.

"Good," she said, her eyes never leaving the screen.

Clint stood there silently for a moment. Then he walked around and stood directly behind her, resting his hands on the desk on either side of her. They weren't touching, but his arms were surrounding her.

Silence reigned for several minutes as Natasha went on typing. At last, she turned to face him.

She didn't seem surprised to see him standing so close – either she was good at hiding it, or she'd felt him there all along.

"Clint."

Elated though he was that he'd finally gotten her attention, Clint wasted no time celebrating and got straight to the point. "Are you pissed at me?"

She frowned. "No. Should I be?"

"Just trying to figure out why you don't seem very happy to see me," Clint returned, looking levelly at her.

"Oh." A sheepish smile crossed her lips. "Actually, I _am_ happy to see you," she said; and he could tell by the coy look in her eyes that she meant it. "I'm just in up to my ears right now. Sorry about all this," she added, gesturing around the room. "Coulson called in a favor. I do want to catch up with you later, though." She gave him a mischievous smirk.

Satisfied that she wasn't upset, Clint moved in closer, pinning her hips to the desk. "I missed you," he began, but Natasha braced her palms against his chest, stopping him.

She took a deep breath. "I missed you too, and I'm planning on having the pleasure of proving it to you, _later,"_ she began, quirking an eyebrow. Then she grew serious. "But I really can't get sidetracked right now, okay? This caller has been on Coulson's ass for days, so if I can get rid of her, he might even let me off early. And it may not look like it, but I'm really having a hard time concentrating with you here. So for – Stop grinning like that, Barton, I'm just stating the facts. – For now, maybe you should leave. Okay?"

Clint sighed. "Okay…"

"Okay." She nodded. Then she glanced towards the other desk. "I need to call her back now."

Instead of releasing her, Clint moved still closer to the desk, trapping her more firmly. He wasn't ready to let her go yet.

"Cmon, Nat," he pleaded. "Just kiss me."

Natasha hesitated, then shook her head. "We wouldn't be able to stop there. I'm trying to be productive here, and kissing you would lead to something that is NOT productive."

"Depends on how you define 'productive'," Clint mused, his hands moving to clasp her hips.

"Clint…" Natasha grasped his wrists. "I can't trust myself to be this close to you right now without doing something stupid."

"So do something stupid," Clint urged her. "And, for the record, I'm _very_ stupid."

She smirked. "I'm well aware. I want the phone."

"Natasha—"

"Clint."

The seconds ticked by in silence. They were staring forcefully into each other's eyes, their bodies pressed together, neither willing to back down.

Checkmate.

Finally, Clint sighed in defeat. _Stubborn ass._ "Fine… Can I at least stay in here? I don't have debriefing for like an hour."

Natasha cocked her head. "You just got back for a two-week surveillance mission. I would think you'd be sick of watching intelligence agents make phone calls."

Clint lowered his head. "I miss being around you."

She raised her eyebrows. "So you really wanna sit on your ass in an office and watch me talk to douchebags for an hour?"

"Yes," Clint said simply.

Natasha stared at him for a minute. "Wow… That's actually really sweet, Clint."

Clint shrugged. "I know."

Natasha stared at him a minute longer. She leaned forward slightly, and his heart jumped – she was going to kiss him.

But then she blinked, and her eyes flicked back up to his. She sighed and let go of his wrists. "Fine, you can stay. Just be quiet and don't distract me."

"Yes ma'am," Clint said meekly, passing her the phone. He took a step back, but left his hands on the desk on either side of her as she dialed and raised the phone to her ear.

Clint took a deep breath. "Okay, I just have to know. If I had come back any other day besides today… we'd be doing something different right now, wouldn't we?"

"Yes, ma'am," Natasha said. "I was going to give you the results of that investigation you requested."

Clint blinked. "I meant—"

"No, ma'am. The search results came up negative," Natasha went on; and Clint realized she wasn't talking to him. He sighed and crossed the room to a chair that sat against the wall. He dropped into it, trying to get comfortable as he knew he would be there for a while.

Now that he thought about it, Clint could understand why Natasha had seemed so standoffish before. Much like Field-work Natasha, Office-work Natasha was intensely focused on the job and virtually impossible to distract. And really, he could even see where, while she might _briefly_ pause to chat with someone _else_ , she wouldn't pause to chat with _him._ Because he was the only person who could throw her focus so completely that it would be all but impossible for her to get back on track with the job. So really, he understood why she would have to double her concentration and essentially totally ignore him.

He just wished it wasn't that way.

Professional patience, Clint had by the bucketful. He could sit for literal hours on end, watching a target read the newspaper and feel only mild disinterest.

In patience in his day-to-day, however, Clint was rather lacking.

Especially when it came to Natasha.

He sat in that chair for what felt like days as Natasha took call after call, frequently moving back and forth between the computer and the telephone, and sometimes the filing cabinet. It was almost like being on the surveillance mission again, except worse in a way, because his partner was so close and yet unreachable. As he'd said, he _did_ want to be there with her, but only when faced with the alternative of wandering around the base without her. And really, the short amount of time he'd spent touching her had only whetted his desire to be near her again.

Clint kept reminding himself of what Natasha had said; that if she could get rid of that one caller, Coulson might let her off early. But as time went on, he gradually began to question just _how_ early. And then just _how_ inclined Coulson would actually _be_ to let her off early. And, eventually, as Natasha had returned her focus to her work and was full-out ignoring him again, he almost began to question whether she'd even said that at all. Or said _anything_ at all. Or even looked at him. Or looked in his general direction.

Clint looked at his watch. With a start, he realized that it had only been thirty minutes since he'd sat down. He looked up at Natasha. She was facing the desk with her back to him, the phone still pressed to her ear. He took in her shapely form, her flawless fiery curls, the way her slender fingers were drumming the file in front of her. There was no way he was going to last _another_ thirty minutes. He couldn't take it anymore.

"Screw it," he muttered, getting to his feet. He would still be quiet, he told himself. He just couldn't stay away.

"Yes, ma'am," she was saying as he came up behind her. "SHIELD has access to governmental files concerning calls taken by the law enforcement officers of this nation."

Clint stopped directly behind her. Tentatively, he slipped his arms around her waist, then paused, bracing himself for the disappointment of getting told off.

"No, ma'am, that shouldn't be a problem," Natasha said. "SHIELD has connections in the national government who are fairly high up on the food chain."

So she was still ignoring him. Good.

This surprised him a little; until he considered the fact that, although she was staying away from him so she could focus, she really had missed him – probably as much as he'd missed her. Her failure to scold him probably sprang from a combination of her determination to ignore him, and the fact that – even though she had told him to keep his distance – she actually wanted him there.

Clint spread his palms on her stomach and pulled her up against him. Her body curved into his in the familiar way he was accustomed to, and he sighed blissfully, resting his nose on her shoulder.

"No, ma'am, I'm sure we could get ahold of them fairly quickly," Natasha said. Clint thought he detected a hint of drowsiness in her voice, as though, despite her efforts to disregard him, she was relaxing in his warm embrace. This amused him; and, perhaps subconsciously, he attempted to change the quality of her tone yet again.

Natasha had abandoned her blazer to the heat of the room, leaving her in a white cotton blouse. The collar of the piece was rather high, but she had freed the top two or three buttons, allowing a little more space around her neck. Her hair had been pulled over one shoulder, baring several tempting inches of the nape of her neck.

Clint burrowed his nose into the gap between her collar and her skin, pressing his lips as low on her neck as he was able. He withdrew and placed another kiss just above the first one, slowly making his way up her neck.

Gradually, Natasha's head started dipping forward, automatically following the current of his kisses. "Would you like me to get on that for you?" Her voice had an undeniable dreamy edge to it now, and Clint smiled against her skin.

His mouth was nearing her hairline now, a sensitive area that never failed to get a reaction out of her. He drew out his penultimate kiss, allowing his lips to linger a bit, before finally positioning his mouth on her hairline.

"I'm so sorry, ma'am, I have a caller on Line Two," Natasha said abruptly. "Would you mind holding for a moment?" She set the phone down as Clint straightened hopefully.

Natasha twisted her head to look at him. "What are you doing?"

"Hey, Nat," Clint said, grinning cheekily.

Natasha chuckled dryly, and turned carefully in his arms until his hands were resting on her back. She set her hands on his shoulders and regarded him disapprovingly, though he could see a sparkle of pleasure in her eyes. "Clint… what did I say about staying in here?"

"To stay quiet," Clint said snarkily. "To be fair, this is quiet."

Natasha sighed. "Clint, I told you not to distract me. Believe me, I want this as much as you do, but I need to finish up in here first."

"What happened to the caller on Line Two?" Clint asked innocently.

Natasha smacked him on the arm. "Dammit, Clint, _you're_ the caller on Line 2!"

"In that case?" Clint playfully extended his thumb and pinky and raised his hand to his ear. "Hello, is this Natasha Romanoff?" he teased.

Natasha crossed her arms and glared at him. But he knew her well, and even through her severe exterior, he could see emotions warring behind her eyes, an equal battle between what she knew she should be doing, and what she really wanted to do.

He had barely grasped this fact when she grabbed his shirt front and their lips collided.

And of course, the door chose that very moment to click open.

Clint quickly jumped away from Natasha, and the two of them turned ungracious stares to the embarrassed-looking Level Three who stood in the doorway.

Fortunately, the agent was very professional and covered quickly.

"I'm sorry, Agent Romanoff?" she said briskly.

Natasha nodded expectantly.

"Agent Coulson sent me. He says I'm to take over this office now. Apparently Line One has cleared, so you're free to go."

Hope and anticipation started rising inside Clint. He tried to stifle it, because he'd learned that when something sounded too good to be true, it often was.

But not this time.

"Oh." Clint could hear the same eagerness that he felt reflected in his partner's tone. But when she spoke again, her voice was again clipped and professional. "There's two on Line Three and apparently we just lost the caller on One. Line Two is open. Thank you." And she strode out of the room, Clint following close behind.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Clint scanned the empty hallway, finally allowing the hope to grow unrestrained in his chest. "So… I still have a half-hour before my debriefing," he told Natasha casually.

She turned to him, a roguish smile sneaking across her lips.

Clint furrowed his brow, pretending contemplation. "Can you think of anything… _fun_ we could do in that amount of time?"

Natasha stepped closer to him, wrapping her arms around his neck. "I can think of something."

"Hm… something productive?" Clint quipped, slipping his own arms around her waist.

Natasha smirked and leaned in, preparing to kiss him again. "Depends on how you define 'productive'."

* * *

 **Thoughts?**


End file.
